


tender, my love (for we are clay)

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Art, Canon Era, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: Grantaire writes poetry in the quiet moments.





	tender, my love (for we are clay)

tender, my love.

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
The early morning sun streaming through the windows.

The flickering of candlelight dancing across the walls.

Curls splayed across a pillow and legs hopelessly intertwined together.

A hand pressed to chest, heartbeat resonating under fingertips.

Quiet.

Gentle.

 

 

Grantaire writes poetry in the quiet moments.

 

 

 

 

Enjolras works late and wakes early but Grantaire is a stranger to sleep as it is. In the silent moments after Enjolras drifts off to sleep and his fingers stop tracing patterns on Grantaire's skin, poetry is born. He traces the words on Enjolras's back, whispers them into blonde curls, writes them on spare papers or skin or books.

He's no poet, and his words would likely make Prouvaire laugh and shake their head, but Grantaire tries.

Enjolras keeps the scribbled words contained in a box under the bed.

 

 

Enjolras looks his most beautiful at five certain points.

First, as it always should be, as he stands amidst a crowd and rallies with fire burning in his eyes and devotion in his wake. Grantaire first fell in love with him when he was on his pedestal, after all.

Second, as he sits down after meetings at the Musain and gathers his papers, their friends slipping out the door silently and him remaining with the softest of smiles on his face. The fire is still there, the devotion still lingers, but instead of an inferno consuming the room it is a flickering candlelight. He is illuminated by the fire within, and the gentleness of the tender flame shines.

Next, as he wakes up slowly in the morning with lazily blinking eyes and timid smiles and fingers curling and uncurling in sheets. It's a new sight, one that Grantaire has only just begun to familiarize, but it takes his breath away and he spirals deeper in love every morning.

Fourth, as his head is thrown back in ecstasy while Grantaire pleasures him. Long lashes and beads of sweat on his brow, a panting mouth and heavy sighs and the ultimate air of utmost adoration as he looks on Grantaire with awe in his eyes. It took Grantaire ages to identify the gentle look that overtook Enjolras's face in these moments, before it had finally dawned on him that Enjolras was as awestruck by him as he was of Enjolras.

And finally, in the quietest moment of all, as Grantaire absentmindedly sketches in a book, when Enjolras curls up closer and presses his lips softly against the skin of Grantaire's back and whispers, "I do believe I am in love with you."

 

 

Grantaire would swear on his life that Enjolras had never been more lovely than in that moment.

 

 

"Need I say it back?" Grantaire had murmured, then Enjolras kissed him and drew the words from a lips the way he draws people to his crowds, coaxed the words carefully out of Grantaire and held them in his grasp and vowed to never let them break.

Enjolras makes a lot of vows in his life, but this one holds the most promise.

 

 

 

 

Grantaire writes poetry, and paints. And Enjolras makes promises to bring to pass a better future for them.

 

 

He doubts plentifully in his life. He doubts that the people of France will ever truly be free. He doubts that a group of under-prepared students could lead a revolution. He doesn't believe in soulmates or fate, and he doubts that much in this world can be influenced to change.

But he believes in Enjolras. He believes in the softness of the other man's skin, he believes in the words Enjolras presses against his curls, he believes in the way their hands fit slotted together perfectly. He believes in that in their more angry moments, they're beautiful and alive and that their heated words translate to passion. He believes that there's so much more between them than a scoff and an angry dismissal at the end of the night. He believes in their soft moments, their words exchanged in hushed tones, their quiet laughs echoing in darkened bedrooms, their skin pressed together in every possible way.

There's a gentleness in the way they make love, a tenderness in the way they talk to one another when they're all alone; a softness in the way they learned to love each other amidst the devastation and misery surrounding them.

 

 

In all his paintings and writings and creations, Grantaire has never once been struck by the notion to portray his marble lover as soft.

Enjolras is an embodiment of revolution, all the power and anger of an entire fleet compiled into one man; such charisma and tactility and devotion for change that many coin him as a god of such.

Roman ideals, for all they are worth, could not properly peg down how powerful Enjolras is if they tried.

 

 

Marble lover of liberty.

 

 

Grantaire thinks perhaps the truth is, Enjolras was made of clay.

 

 

He's easy enough to mold, soft when treated properly but hard under circumstances where he's left alone. He's got the beauty of the gods bestowed upon him, he could have been born from a sculpture; but he's got none of the hardness or the edges that come with the art.

Enjolras is soft only for Grantaire, he says.

 

 

Grantaire believes it.

 

 

For anyone else, this man of fearless intent could never be soft. He's the leader of a revolution, he has a change to bring about the world and he shouldn't be stopped or distracted until he achieves it.

Grantaire believes in nothing. But he does hope to see the new world Enjolras envsions for them.

 

 

 

 

 

Grantaire paints, in the quiet moments. He writes poetry that could never accurately portray the depth of his feelings.

 

 

 

And in the moments in between, he holds the clay of Enjolras's trust in his hands, and sculpts a future he prays will never crumble.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://feuillyys.tumblr.com) crying abt les mis or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tannscotts) posting about various things.
> 
>  
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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